Don’t Go, Weight!

Posted in Another Version of Success, My Body, My Self, NEW YORK, Weight by Kel Daroe

I recently had a panic attack in Target. Atlantic Terminal was it’s usual mosh pit of mayhem, screaming women with hideous eyelashes pushing strollers and bumping into yuppies perusing the lackluster Prabal Gurung items now at 70% off. Target isn’t my fave place to be (unless it’s a Sunday morning, everything is restocked, and I have the time to sashay down the “ethnic” hair care aisle), but it doesn’t get me flustered. I am there 2 times a week, more like 4 since I have moved into my new apartment.

Yet there I was. Rising body temp, echoing sounds, and slippery fingers. I was having a meltdown albeit a silent one. Those are the only respectable ones to have.

I knew why it was happening. A mere 45 minutes before, my beautiful blonde Polish OB-GYN had the following exchange.

Polish OB-GYN: Yeah, I don’t know why you keep having these adverse reactions to birth control. First the IUD. Now the Nuvaring. I haven’t seen anything like it.

Me: I’m special.

Polish OB-GYN: Indeed you are. [flips through chart] Did you realize in August you weighed 163 and now you weigh 177? And your blood pressure has elevated considerably.

[PAUSE]

Polish OB-GYN: If it gets much higher, you may not be eligible to take birth control.

Me: [HAS SMALL ANEURYSM]

I had the same conversation with my primary care physician a month ago when he talked to me about my cholesterol.

And I have had the pleasure of receiving off-handed comments from family members at a recent wedding when I collapsed in my hotel room more than once in an adjacent hotel room.

Kelly, you were never a fat child or even a fat teenager. Kelly, you were doing so well, what happened? You wouldn’t be this overweight if you didn’t live in New York.

Apparently I will not eligible for a loving relationship, a raise, a healthy pregnancy, happy vacations, a functioning heart or respiratory system, or family support unless I lose about 40 pounds.

There is some truth to that. Dating is different for overweight people. The men that were attracted to me 8 years ago were richer and whiter without a doubt. Apparently women who routinely exercise get promoted more. And I know all about diabetes and heart disease thanks to my day job.

So, how do I manage to like myself today? To wear a sundress and flirt and not scrutinize everything I eat and exercise for the joy of it, and find value in myself regardless of what society says? Well, that’s easy. Society isn’t the problem at all. I am a black woman from Mississippi who went to an Ivy League school; every day I spit in society’s face and go on about my business.

It’s hard, however, to spit in the faces of colleagues, family members, and friends. People who love me, they really do, but scrunch up their face when I order french fries. Or point out how we used to share clothes, or outright ask me why I let myself go.

I didn’t let myself go. My life happened. After 24ish, my metabolism slowed. I participated in the cocktail culture of the city. I ate out on dates 3 times a week. I sit for 3 hours a day on the train and 9 hours at work. I mostly lived in places with small I get home at 9pm, write down my thoughts and lay down. And I use food as punisher, soother, and reward.

In other words, I am an ordinary American. In my family or school cohort, ordinary isn’t acceptable. It’s isn’t acceptable to me either on most accounts, which is why this issue gives me such anguish and stress.

I truly have no desire to be thin. I do have a desire to be thinner, have more energy, and have more insulin sensitivity. Spring is a time of renewal; I am starting small. A jog with the dog. Walking up the stairs, heading to the farmers market every week. I don’t expect that I will see a definite change on the outside.

But it’s the inside I am more concerned about.

*PS. Feel free to share any success stories or tips via Twitter or in the comments!

8Feb2013

The Rat Race

Posted in Another Version of Success, BOYS, Class and Color Aren't Cause, I Feel Like Death, My Motherboard, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl, The Rat Race by Kel Daroe

For the last 3 years my mother has called me on the 14th of June and said “Happy Birthday. You are old.” Inevitably it leads to a discussion to my lack of wealth, the smog in New York City…

and the fact that my ovaries are dying.

She has a point. Women in my family tend to go stale relatively early. And The Bestie loves to remind me that overachieving women of color have reproductive system biologically 7 years, on average, older than whites. Stick a knife in my uterus; it’s done.

I like babies. They are kinda cute and squishy. I also know that they require lots o’ cash, a flexible schedule, and a little thing called patience.

I want about 700 of them.

But they require the thing I’m most scared to acquire.

A dad.

I know. I know. Technically, if I had to, I could do it myself. But I don’t want to. Every day I see brown young women carrying strollers covered in thin probably toxic plastic in 20 degree weather down 3 flights of steps.

I don’t want to be them. I don’t want to be the person who never makes $100,000 because she has to leave the office promptly at 4.

I don’t want to do it alone.

I would have to do it alone.

Because I don’t know if I am cut out for this, you know, relationship thing. I can be ok for a little while. I like the feeling at first, but when the rubber hits the road and I realize that it’s you I have to look at you for a while, I respond like a soaking rat in a sewer scratching its way to the surface, even if it drowns in the process.

And no one would leave a baby with a rat.

26Oct2012

The Upside of Urkel

Posted in Another Version of Success, BOYS, Butterflies, Foolproof, Independence Day, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl, The Pitfalls of Being a Good Girl by Kel Daroe

The past two months, it’s been hard to breathe. Between working 6 days a week, trying to finish up a project at Job 1 and start a project at Job 2, I have all but abandoned faithful friends and confidants. I knew I couldn’t make it up to them individually, so I planned a picnic.

It didn’t take long for us to catch up. I love them; they love me. The leaves, turning colors anywhere from ruby-red to burnished gold, floated to our feet. I’m sure people were talking, but my soul sat in silence, content to just be.

And then it started…

“Kelly, so tell us about your boyfriend.”

It’s an innocuous query from a bunch of undersexed and overbrained New York career women, but it snapped me out of the dream-like space I was inhabiting. I answered questions in clipped phrases, sighs, and facial expressions not closely approximating a smile.

My friends were shocked. My boyfriend is, without a shadow of a doubt, better than the last one and anyone who has crossed my path in a number of years. We went foraging for 5 hours in Prospect Park, then cooked dinner with the greens we collected. We talk about retirement. We bike through neighborhoods to find thrift stores. He twists my hair. HE TWISTS MY HAIR!

So why am I so meh whenever someone asks about him?

Because I am dating Steve Urkel.

Do I make you swoon?

Seriously. Gap-in-teeth-questionable-fashion-sense-glasses-from-two-decades-ago Steve Urkel.

I have been dating for about a thousand years. For most of that time, I went out with someone because of charisma, sexitude, or swagger. It’s hard to care about someone’s values when you are drunk making out with them on the top of a Manhattan hotel bar. Chemistry is not connectivity. When I look at anyone’s stable relationship that I admire (I can count about 3), they all say the same thing– passion and chemistry don’t sustain you.

I guess my friends’ point is that it should be there at least at the beginning? Where is that set in stone? No, I don’t daydream about him. I don’t call him obsessively. We do not makeout on rooftops.

But when I am sad, he takes kisses my forehead and takes my hand. Even when he works more than me, he is always concerned that I am getting enough rest. He takes out the trash, walks the dog, fixes chairs, and washes the dishes. I never ask him to.

He doesn’t give me butterflies.

But there is truly no other place that I’d rather be.

TV Tokens? Not so much.

About 10 years ago, I wanted to be a historian. My subjects of choice were African-American gender history, LGBT history, and the history of reproductive medicine. My expertise allowed me to read old Ebony magazines, first-hand accounts of underage hustlers in Time Square, and protocols for testing early contraceptives on Blacks and Hispanics to find out if it was suitable for whites. A prospective career writing about sex and drugs helped me get through the dreary, dusty environment of my suburban elitist school.

Reading microfiche in the library’s basement I was enamored with early and mid-twentieth century Jet magazines. I skimmed past the advertisements for skin lighteners and hair pomade and always went to the Jet Firsts. Each week the Jet Firsts mentioned some woman of color who was blazing the trails in law, science, academia, politics, or celebrity. They served as beacons of hope during the South’s Jim Crow, the North’s smothering urban poverty, and the disillusionment that followed.

Today, it doesn’t make sense to have the Jet Firsts. Women of all persuasions are seen everywhere.

Except for on television!

During the past decade I have looked for a representation of myself. All I could come by was Meredith Grey and Carrie Bradshaw. I intimately understand Meredith’s neurosis or Carrie Bradshaw’s obsession with shoes, but it doesn’t really reflect my life. The best I have is Living Single’s Khadijah James of 1993 on YouTube.

This season, however, is different. I turn on the tv and I see myself! Not just in terms of color, but in terms of character. Scandal’s Kerry Washington is an driven bitch who makes tough calls, leads by example, and has ill-advised sexual relationships with unavailable white men. WE’RE PRACTICALLY TWINS. The Mindy Project’s Mindy Kaling is a woman with big thighs working in the medical field and just trying to keep her head up and believe in love after about a million bad dates. HELLO MIRROR!

My excitement about these shows makes me equally ecstatic and sad. A black woman hasn’t headed a drama since Diahann Carol did in the 70s. I have NEVER seen a non-thin brown woman head ANYTHING EVER on regular broadcast tv.

It’s 2012. And we still have Jet Firsts.

My only hope is that I can get to a Jet Fifth by the time I’m 50. Until then I will be doing my brown girl duty…aka siting on my ass and laughing at the shenanigans of a person who looks like me.

Mindy, I’m rooting for you girl!

18Sep2012

Identity Crisis

Posted in Another Version of Success, Butterflies, My Body, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl by Kel Daroe

I usually have no problem talking about the worst parts of myself. I grew up in a society that depends on familial secrecy to uphold a cultural facade, and long ago I decided not to live in an all-black rerun of Dallas. Every time I write a blog post, I star in my own episode of Iyanla Fix My Life where I am both the host and guest. Sharing my experiences along with brash comedy and intellectual insights is the essence of this blog. As a result I have made friends, enemies, and cleared up misconceptions. All because I am honest.

I sleep well.

So, I’m pretty baffled that I have had a major life change for the past few weeks that is very hard to put into words. I have sat at my computer about 11 times wondering what I would say and how people would judge me. Writing about what’s going on in my uterus, my rape, and my habitual romantic pursuit of underachievers was a cake-walk in comparison. Even now, my palms are sweating as my brain is telling my legs to get up and watch yet another rerun of Criminal Minds.

So, here goes:

I have a boyfriend. Phew! I said it.

[Pause]

Yep, that’s it. That is the thing I have been coming to grips with over the last 3 weeks. I have only recently told my best of friends. Recently as in 2 days ago.

For so long being single was a part of my identity. Along with being an Ivy Leaguer, a woman, a Negro, and Brooklynite. A sizeable part of my life centers on socializing and talking with other fabulous women on topics like “Will I ever have sex again?!?” We wore our angst the same way I would my favorite purse: loud and proud. I would feel naked without my purse! And I feel naked every time I realize I have to tear down the emotional walls that I have erected in the name of self-sufficiency and ambition.

I look so much better in clothes.

27Aug2012

Papa Don’t Preach

Posted in Another Version of Success, My Body, My Self, Papa Don't Preach, Sex and the Single Girl, She Works Hard For The Money by Kel Daroe

At least once a day I hear someone reference the War on Women. 2012 has been a particularly difficult year to have a vagina. Wanting affordable access to family planning makes us sluts. Not wanting to be mothers until we are ready means we are going to hell. And don’t even get me started on the scientific “facts” that “prove” you can’t get knocked up from rape.

The irony isn’t lost on me that most of the people making these kinds of statements into a microphone are old, rich, white men. One of my best friends is a very Christian conservative. We greatly disagree on a woman’s right to choose. But even she concedes that we live in a country that doesn’t support motherhood (aka paid maternity leave, affordable day care, access to decent prenatal care for everybody) in comparison to other developed nations.

It doesn’t help that while the nation is waging a war against my body, SO AM I. For the past five years I have tried a variety of remedies to make my womb SIT DOWN and SHUT UP. From the cysts, to the pain, to the bloating, to the side effects, something always seems to be amiss. There is no perfect solution. I don’t want anything implanted in me like I’m a Russian spy. The Nuvaring scares the hell out of me. And the patch is a pinky tan color that just screams I WAS MADE SOLELY FOR WHITE PEOPLE. They can make a clear nicotine patch for smokers, but I’m stuck with this piece of shit:

Inevitably I gave up the search and went on the pill like everyone else. Except something is wrong with that too. I never take it at the same time. Sometimes I forget. And when I take it, it’s a daily depressing reminder that I’m not in a relationship. Yay!

After talking with my doctor and my OBGYN friends about my options, it was glaringly obvious what I should do.

Get an IUD.

Mom, if you are reading this, I promise you that IUDs have changed since the 70s and I’m not going to die from an unheard of infection. Also, the Surgeon General says that tampons are ok. Thanks! Love you.

It seems completely counterintuitive to stick something into your uterus so nothing will stick in your uterus. And the price tag doesn’t help. Basically, it’s like sticking a Marc by Marc Jacobs purse up your pussy. A Marc by Marc Jacobs purse that lasts for 5 years only. Did I get ripped off? It is what it is.

Today as I laid on my back spread eagle, I knew I was making the right decision. I don’t want a baby right now. No other method works for me. It’s actually cheaper for the average user once you add up 60 copayments for bcp and Plan B.

As I exited the doctor’s office, I felt crampy yet confident!

And then I started to cry.

WTF? I looked down at the little card the nurse had given me.

Next replacement: August 27, 2017.

2017. 2017! I will be fucking 34 years old.

That card was concrete evidence that the life I pictured for myself is completely not going to happen. I will not be the 30 year old mother of 2 living in a 3 story house who works even though she doesn’t have to because her amazingly attractive husband brings home the bacon. I will be the 30 year old who is thinking about having roommates again because she can’t manage to pay off her student loan on an artist/public servant salary. I will be the 31 year old woman who still wouldn’t want to get pregnant even if she met the perfect man so she won’t have to depend on someone else 100%, just in case things don’t work out.

I mourn the vision I had of myself. There’s just a wide discrepancy between who I thought I would be and who I am. I knew I had those feelings when it came to my career, but not when it came to my cunt.

I can’t blame Paul Ryan for the War on Women that I have within myself. Really it’s the War on Woman, because the rules in my head apply to me alone. The war that expects me to do everything, all at once, like yesterday. Today I made the right decision. I want to live a healthy life without constantly thinking about my reproductive organs and how they could ruin my life.

But until my IUD can do for my worry what it is doing for my womb (preventing unwanted things from sticking) I will be stuck with that image of something I have failed to become.

Even though I’m not even sure if I ever really, truly wanted it in the first place.

17Aug2012

The Depression Era

Posted in I Feel Like Death, My Body, My Self, The Depression Era by Kel Daroe

Only Duke Ellington and John Coltrane know how I feel. It’s Friday night, the city is jumping for one of the last weekends of summer.

And I am sitting at home, half-dressed, in a sentimental mood.

I have suffered from depression for about 15 years, but each time I feel like this, it comes as a complete shock and surprise. Like me, my depression has morphed over time. Gone are the crying jags, horrendous decisions, and incessant negative though patterns of my youth. They left with biking shorts, slap bracelets, platform tennis shoes, and the Spice Girls.

Now, again like me, it’s more mature. There is no crying, just a pervasive melancholia that you can smell if you get a little too close. I decline engagements in favor of late nights not sleeping, listening to blues and jazz. One too many glasses of wine are my only company. It is quiet and small and easy to disregard. So I disregard it.

And then suddenly I have 2 days in a week that I cannot get out of bed. I don’t feel emotional, just overwhelmingly fatigued. Like it’s too much energy to call my grandmother or brush my teeth.

I have no choice but to stop. I always feel like this for a reason. I spent the last 6 weeks hustling for a better job, apartment, body, and life. I didn’t take time to breathe because I was so busy making plans. Work. Negotiate. Write. Gym. Walk the Brooklyn Bridge. Walk Bernie. Write Some More. Make Plans. Pass Out. I didn’t take the time to breathe.

My body decided to take a time out for me.

Depression and exhaustion are not easy. I want to feel better, but I can’t. Not right now. Now my body needs love. Vegetables, rest, good books, and soft voices of support. I’m sorry. I can’t go to a movie. I can’t listen. I can’t force a smile. Not even for my friends.

Unless they are John or Miles or Ella or Sara or Billie or Duke.

They always help me out the sentimental mood.

30Jul2012

Too Fat To Dance?

Posted in My Body, My Self, Too Fat To Dance? by Kel Daroe

One of my non-listed New Years resolutions was to feel more connected with my body. I have been moderately successful, making a concerted effort to engage in more physical activity, eat healthier, and reinforce a kinder inner monologue.

Part of my disconnection comes from my inability to understand how I changed so drastically in the last 5-6 years. I ran and danced non-stop as an adolescent and still managed to squeeze into size 4 skinny jeans and bustiers in college, when my physical activity plummeted by the same amount that my consumption of liquid bread (beer!) increased.

Then I moved to NYC, and it all fell apart. For the first time in my life, I realized that I was actually quite attractive (I went to a white, upper class suburban school known for racial tension). I didn’t have a problem with dating. Three times a week, I found myself eating out and drinking with the who’s who of New York, without thinking what it would do to my waistline. That in conjunction with emotional eating due to a new stressor (WORK!) distended my svelte frame.

With the crash of 2008/2009 destroying the non-profit sector at the same time I exited an abusive job, I found myself defined by unfamiliar adjectives all starting with vowels: unemployed, underaccomplished, and obese.

I can’t lie. Since I checked in at 192 pounds in 2009, life has been a struggle. I wallowed for a bit, more about my career and romantic life than my weight, but it was all connected. But I’m a gangster; I don’t wallow for long.

When I was waiting for a promising full-time job, I worked my ass off, quite literally, with a job in retail. I started off with small goals, being able to fit into the largest clothing size offered at work, a 12Petite. I got it done by lifting boxes and moving around with a sense of urgency. I eliminated soda and fried foods 85% of the time. Within a year, I saw a difference of 20 lbs. I was so proud of myself.

…until I got news from my doctor.

My year of hard work was nowhere near good enough. I was prediabetic and had ridiculously high cholesterol. I was going to be a 27 year-old on Lipitor. I cried for a day. My negative mental script began again in earnest. I was going to die early, fat, and alone.

I still have moments when I feel that way. It still may be true. What will also be true, however, is that I took a holistic approach to improving my overall health. Not by obsessing about calories and blood work (though those things are definitely important), but instead focusing in something far more immeasurable–my relationship with myself.

These days I feel pretty good, especially when I am alone or in a small group of people who care about me. In larger groups, I still retreat within my former fat girl self, doubting someone will want to come up and say hello. I sip my drink and stare at the wall.

And I don’t do what I yearn to do–

Get up on the floor and motherfucking dance.

I have always prided myself on my dance skills. Whether it was practicing ballet, jazz, and hip hop routines at nauseum around the house, memorizing Janet Jackson’s best dance moves with my roommate, shaking it up on dancefloors across Germany, or dirty dancing for HOURS in 4 inch heels sans any liquid encouragement. I have my unused pointe shoes in my living room; I will never give them away.

But will I ever use them? My fat is decreasing, but the rift it caused between me and my former self widens by the day. I can’t fathom someone asking me to dance again. I can’t fathom dancing in the middle of the floor on my own.

But I have to. I just have to. So, I took a deep breath and called a nearby Brooklyn dance studio. Were the dance classes filled with 14 year-old girls? Nope. Would I be the fattest person in the class? Maybe. Would someone mock me for it? Absolutely not.

If others will be nice to me, the least I can do is be nice to myself.

And so I will be packing all 159 pounds of myself into a leotard and tights.

I would look great in this!

I’m not the limber teenager who could dance with no limbs on the ground. But I’m not the 26 year-old who couldn’t make up the subway stairs without heavy breathing either. I am some brilliant, new creature whom I do not yet know all about.

But I do know one thing. The bitch can dance.

25Jul2012

Split Second Happiness

Posted in Another Version of Success, Foolproof, My Self, She Works Hard For The Money by Kel Daroe

Lately, I have been a hot mess. My stomach is all tied in knots. I don’t want to eat; then I eat like there is no tomorrow. I need copious amounts of rest just to answer the phone and pretend to be polite. “Move out my way!” my elbow shouts to the side of the passenger who is taking just a little too much time to get off the subway.

It doesn’t take much to figure out why. I can’t decide which job I want. My lungs are giving into asthma attacks. I had the worst date OF ALL TIME. And my plans to move in with a roomie and save money have been dashed against a rock. I am usually an excellent problem solver, but when I’m confused about every aspect of my life (professional, financial, romantic, familial, demographic!), I am so overwhelmed that even my best attempts at coping feel like solving a rubix cube.

One of my good friends told me recently that the best way at finding a mate was to be “aggressively, authentically you.” Screw finding a man. I’m going to use the strategy to find something I need much, much more: peace of mind.

And so, armed with his words, and the wondrous words of Beatrice Clay, I am listing 5 ways in which I, Kel Daroe, can have a more beautiful life. Like Now.

Eating watermelon or popsicles. This sounds hokey, but they INSTANTLY transport me to my childhood in Mississippi. Trying not to get the juice on my clothes, catching fireflies, and reveling in the joys of summer.
Watching the antics of this little guy.
Reading and obsessing about anything having to do with nail art. Seriously!
Reacquainting myself with the old classics. Did you know that Sherlock Holmes was a coke fiend? I totally skipped over that part in middle school.
Taking the time out to talk to my best friend. For a long time. About absolutely nothing.

Oh, and one for extra credit…White wine. Self explanatory.

Even making that list eliminated a ton of stress and made me smile! Lesson learned. Gratitude and small acts of kindness, even to yourself, are self-fulfilling prophecies. I still can’t figure shit out. But who cares as long as I have a glass of wine along with Sherlock and Watson to figure it out for me.

What are your quick fixes for nirvana and split second happiness? Do share!

20Jul2012

Another Version of Success

Posted in Another Version of Success, My Self, She Works Hard For The Money by Kel Daroe

A long time ago, I opted out of what I thought was the mainstream version of success. I remember it well. It was freezing on my college campus in suburban New Jersey and I had to mentally prepare myself to for an early morning 8:30 lecture on a subject that held no interest. Waking up at 7:15 was bad, so was the cold, so was the walk. That, however, isn’t what did it. I finally got there and plopped my bum into the hard plastic chair. The lecture on organic chemistry started, and about halfway through, everything began to fade and play in slow motion. I looked around me. I was out of place. I didn’t want to ask questions just to be heard. I didn’t make snide, dismissive comments to those who seemed to be genuinely stumped. I didn’t find the subject riveting. Organic chemistry did not represent step no. 17 in a predetermined path that led to me going to a grade A medical school, living in a large house, and becoming a millionaire. I couldn’t have given a shit.

And so I checked out. And then I walked out of the lecture and on the version of success that had seemed so natural and inevitable up until that point.

It was the best adult decision I have ever made.

Yet, I still struggle with the notion of success and what it means for me.

In the last two weeks, I have been offered a job that most people in my field would kill for. I will finally be making a *gasp* semi-decent wage. When I tell people this, they clap their hands and smile. Their voices go up an octave. I wax poetic about how great this is and what a wonderful step I have taken, but in my quiet moments alone eating couscous with my dog at my feet, I say the things I know I shouldn’t say out loud.

This feels like nothing.

I’m not exactly sure why it feels like nothing. More prestige is good; more money is good. But I feel further and further away from the things that bring me a visceral form of pleasure. I want to spend my life in 2 very distinctly different ways: helping poor, brown women take better control of their bodies AND writing sociopolitical satirical pieces of theater. When I get ahead in one way, I fall behind in the other. There are only 24 hours in a day; those are the opportunity costs. I look around Facebook or the Princeton Alumni Weekly and feel inadequate. I am not starting a theater company. I am not making $100k. I am not traveling the world. I am not getting a PhD.

I am not a person of note.

The problem is one of urgency. I realize that Rome was not built in a day and that the economic crisis of 2009 basically depleted my industry. It’s just when you spend 4/5 of your life being ahead of the group, to feel like you are falling behind is like a punch to the spleen. It’s like being the first one to read, but then being unable to master multiplication. Don’t successful people stay that way?

Ah, again this notion of success. I STILL fully reject the idea that the only great careers are in medicine, law, and finance. That’s why I get most demoralized when I realize I am not even achieving MY OWN VERSION OF SUCCESS, let alone the cookie-cutter way everyone assumed I would take.

I’m learning to breathe. To sit and make purposeful small actions. I can’t tell you if this will work or not. I can just tell you that I cannot function in a perpetual state of anxiety about my life. I’m trying a new approach. I am trying to make each day feel like a success. That means eating better, writing, smiling, and spending time with people I love. Hell, maybe I will become a millionaire this way. Or maybe I will just end up with a string of days filled with happiness.

Maybe happiness is the best success of all.

5Jul2012

Independence Day

Posted in Independence Day, My Self, She Works Hard For The Money by Kel Daroe

I really enjoyed Independence Day when I was a child. The cookouts, the old-skool music, and eating about 1776 of these:

As an adult, I asked Would it be so bad if we still were owned by the British? Not to mention that Independence Day is of relatively little significance to people in my ethnic group or gender (arguably). In the absence of family, a speaker BLASTING Cameo’s greatest hits, and my new beef-free diet, it just feels like a day off.

And yet in a small still moment today, I got it.

Independence is no easy feat. As a matter of fact, it is a big fucking deal. I am a nation, a nation of one. Well 1.25 if you count my dog Bernie.

Establishing Kellyville has been the hardest, most rewarding thing I have ever done. This year, I let go of the negativity and the rat race. I let go of the caveats. I know what they are. I am underpaid. My life is too expensive. This is a big dirty city that moves too fast for meaningful connections. Those things, for me, are all true.

But what is truer? I work my ass off. I just got promoted AGAIN. I will finally be making a livable wage. I am becoming an expert in my field. I find small ways to bring love into my life, even if it’s just the love of a 10 lb. dog. I am a voracious reader and a good writer. I am a hot babe. I am a good friend and an even better cook. I am still young. The single life suits me well. This city offers more opportunity than any place in the world. Every day I am blessed to be in good health. Being in good spirits is a choice.

Thomas Jefferson, I appreciate you. Conceptualizing a way for a nation of millions to survive on its own and to craft the principles by which it should live is a beast. Today, and only for today, I will give you and your Negro-loving shady white ass a pass. This country is a beautiful place. I am lucky to be a woman here today. I owe some of that to you and the Declaration of Independence.

And to my own gumption to carve out a special life just for myself.

25May2012

You Give Me Butterflies. Inside, Inside.

Posted in Butterflies, My Body, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl, Why Can't Single Women Be Busy? by Kel Daroe

Last month was crap. Between pneumonia, losing money due to pneumonia, unrelated blood tests (argh), breaking up with friends, my uterus going rogue, cover letter writing, interviewing, looking for apartments, and cleaning up my dog’s pee from the carpet, it’s a wonder I made it out alive. Now that I am on the other side and the sun is coming out, I decided to join the real world for spring. My real world consists of ice coffees, walks all over Brooklyn, white wine, theater, and skirts.

And, oh yeah, dating.

My best friend always tells me I am a squirrel. I can hibernate in school or work and writing because I hate the cold, but show me a flower and I will want to show you my, well flower. Although this is probably a gross exaggeration, there is something to feeling more feminine in spring. I am more likely to smile and look at you for an extra 3 seconds…before I push you out the way to get to the train.

To start my season of right, I revamped my online dating profile. In the midst of even more life drama, I totally forgot about it until a 6 foot man who could spell correctly messaged me saying he would like to meet. After the prerequisite google search and phone call, we agreed to meet this weekend.

But something is off. I don’t feel it.

What don’t I feel?? No, it’s not that type of post.

I don’t feel the butterflies.

During most of my twenties, my stomach was a greenhouse filled with butterflies. At any given time, a text, glance, brush, or kiss, could make my lungs feel like I was running a 5k.

This man is cute. And seemingly smart. But at the moment (this exact moment), I really just am thinking about eating grilled cheese.

A passerby, or my mother, would think that I am too settled or too bitter to get excited about the prospect of love. That’s not it. I am pretty settled. I am a little bitter, but I still like the idea of love.

So why have I resolved to thrift around Williamsburg and take a long stroll and not let it ruin my day if he is late or doesn’t show or is totally lame? Why don’t I check my phone every 5 minutes wondering if he will text me?

Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m no longer a crazy ass bitch.

When I think about the times when me and my friends described (in great detail) the boy-caused butterflies, I tend to think about the excitement, the finding of the perfect date night outfit, the recap you can’t wait to tell everyone about.

Somehow, I gloss over the not-so-great parts that come with looking before you leap. The crying. The overanalyzing of emails (I have spent at least 2 weeks of my life reading emails from boys for my friends). The conversations that go around in circles. The pregnancy tests. The disappearances. The stand ups. The going Dutch. The paying outright. The reappearances with another girl. The drama. The last 10 years, me and my friends have made some of the aforementioned mistakes. Well, all of them. And some of them repeatedly.

And now what do I think about? I think about myself and my wants mostly. But when I think about another person, I don’t wonder what he looks like under the shower. I wonder if he has a stable job. A signature drink. An aestetic. A clean bloodstream. These are not very exciting things; they do not cause butterflies. However, they are much, MUCH, MUCH more essential in finding a good partner than the way someone’s hair falls in their face or how their ass looks in jeans when they walk away.

Did I just say partner? Oh shit.

It’s time for that grilled cheese. And a martini.

23Apr2012

Me and the TV

Posted in Me and the TV, My Body, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl by Kel Daroe

April is usually the month of spring cleaning. As a youngster, I would help wash the silver, clean the fans, wash the baseboards, and plunge my hands in SoftSrub so often my hands looked as white as my mother’s. My mother stayed at home and, to this day, is a bit of a domestic dynamo. Although I crochet and am about to start using my first sewing machine, I can think of better things to do with my time than sniffing Pine Sol.

But, this week I did my own version of Spring Cleaning. It had nothing to do with dust; it had more to do with dynamics.

Objects hold the energy of their owners. Don’t believe me? Pull out that misspelled love letter that you received in the 11th grade. The boy who wrote is has been long gone, but whenever you touch it, you smile. The energy from the good memory is still there when you open the yellow pages. It’s why people display family photos and childhood keepsakes. Well, they do if they don’t live in NYC, where if you make more than 3 holes in a wall the landlord will try to keep your security deposit.

As I have walked into my apartment in the last 2 weeks, I wondered why I instantly felt a struggle to breathe. My lethargy was palpable; my routine was concrete. Walk the dog for 20 minutes. Pretend to fix a meal. Watch tv. Toss and turn. My apartment felt filled with jello, so bad was the inertia. When I was out and about, I was my usual gregarious self.

The last time I felt the exact same way, I was going through a breakup with the man I thought I would marry. I was pretty done before the actual ending, but the wound was continuously reopened when he began to move his things at the staggering pace of 3 SHEETS OF PAPER PER WEEK. A chair here. A dish here. Each time, accompanied with a conversation that tore my heart to shreds and made being in my apartment unbearable. In a move of brilliance, 2 good friends came over, bottle of wine in hand, yelled “LET’S GET RID OF THIS BAD JUJU!” and moved his shit out in one fell swoop. Well most of it, anyway. I still had the rickety 40″ inch television that I decided to keep for utility. That was the final ripping off of the bandaid that soon began to heal.

Or so I thought. Running into my ex unexpectedly and him dropping some key information that made me feel like shit reopened the wound. Well, not really. It didn’t change my life in any way, but instantly my apartment again filled with jello, and I struggled to keep my thoughts together.

Spring Cleaning was in order, but what was it in my house that I needed to throw out? There was no pile of boxes with someone else’s name that needed to be placed on the street. I decided I was making too much of it. I picked up the remote and attempted to watch my girl Kerry Washington prevent another rich white man from going down on Scandal. But something happened. My tv wouldn’t pick up ABC at all. I would have to watch it on Hulu the next day, which was utterly unacceptable.

Why do I still have this piece of shit? I yelled in a room full of nothing. I had one of those hour-long irrationally angry episodes that Sarah Jessica Parker, Zooey Deschanel, and every woman with a college degree have made famous.

I tried to lift the tv, but didn’t get far, so in my Spring Cleaning fervor, I looked around my apartment for other objects whose energy I wanted to get rid of. That shot glass given to me by that boy who didn’t believe in kissing? GONE! The letters from the white guy who told me loved me, but could never get serious with a brown girl, though he dated brown girls exclusively? DESTROYED! The bath sponge left in my shower by some dude with whom I made the worst personal decision, the same dude who was making equally poor decisions with others? IN THE TRASH!

I felt better immediately. But this, the worst offender of all, was still staring back at me.

the bane of my existence

I tried to get someone to pick up the 60 lb piece of junk and throw it to the curb with no luck. Alone during the rainy weekend, I realized that just because an object has bad juju for me, doesn’t mean that it will for someone else. Another woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure.

So I listed the tv on Craigslist and decided to give it to a woman who had nothing because she was starting her life over with her children after getting out of a domestic violence situation. The relic of my abusive relationship helped (in some small way) someone get out of an abusive relationship. Poetic justice indeed. I couldn’t be more pleased with the outcome.

I put the Nasonex down. Again, in my own apartment, I could breathe.

21Apr2012

The Pitfalls of Being a Good Girl

Posted in Being an Artist is Fucking Hard, My Self, The Pitfalls of Being a Good Girl by Kel Daroe

If you know me, you know I am a theater junkie. If money was not involved in this world at all, I would spend my time writing plays and drinking crystal light with vodka. To make up for it, I spend as much of my time in a theater as I can. I can barely participate in my own art form because it’s so expensive, but with a great group of friends and the goal function of Mint, I manage to do ok.

Lately, there has been a rash of “all black” plays. Well, like 4 in 2 years, which is a rash by Broadway standards. Each time one comes out, I debate whether or not to see it. Truthfully, I would rather see more original works from black playwrights hit Bway, but I will take what I can get. So when my friend The Playwright asked me if I wanted to see A Streetcar Named Desire, I jumped at the chance. Nicole Ari Parker isn’t my favorite actress, but the tickets were free, and Blair Underwood doesn’t wear much.

That was enough for me.

Three hours later, I tried to string together meaningful sentences about the play, but I couldn’t. I stared dazed and confused, moved in some internal way that I couldn’t describe. Those scenes have been playing in my head the last week. I am all at once disturbed and elated at the memories and their meaning, but it wasn’t until today that I knew why.

Basically, I am Blanche.

It’s uncanny that a drug-addicted gay man could write something that touches a modern, black woman so well. But hey, Tennessee Williams was from Mississippi and so am I. That counts for something.

If you went to a decent high school, you have read this play. If you haven’t, stop reading this blog and head to the Cliff Notes section of Barnes & Noble now.

Blanche, the ultimate Southern belle, drops in on her lower class sister (Stella) who is married to the most abusive, yet sexiest man of all time (Stanley). Throughout the course of the play, we realize that Blanche has a serious past that she is running from, but in 1940s New Orleans, there’s not many places a woman can go except into the arms of a man. Once Stanley uncovers her past, he takes the only two things she has left: her body and autonomy.

Of course, I am very leery of the good girl/Southern belle/virgin vs. modern/worldly/sexual dichotomy, but it exists. At least within myself.

Like Blanche, I have spent a regrettable amount of time making sure what I had to say and what I thought was feminine and palatable. “Good girls” don’t ask for more money or respect at work. We just purposefully perform poorly so we don’t have to scream I WOULD RATHER SELL CHURROS ON THE SUBWAY THAN WORK HERE! Do good girls delete the numbers of men who leave a lot to be desired? OF COURSE NOT! That would require an uncomfortable “bad girl” conversation or shouting SERIOUSLY?!? WE COULD HANG OUT FOR 1,000 YEARS BEFORE YOU SAID SOMETHING THOUGHT-PROVOKING! Instead, we obsessively fixate on something trivial and purposefully annoy the boy until HE tells us it’s done. Then the good girl breathes the biggest sigh of relief and eats a plate of spaghetti and thanks her lucky stars she got rid of him. It seems so perfectly natural; I’ve seen it my whole life. Women obsessively committing themselves to being frail, flighty, and emotional, just so we don’t have to do what needs to be done. Waiting or manipulating someone to do something that I don’t have the balls to do is par for the course. It’s as natural to me as breathing.

And as I watched A Streetcar Named Desire, I realized that it was also CERTIFIABLY INSANE.

14Apr2012

TypeCast

Posted in My Body, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl, TypeCast by Kel Daroe

I’m pretty good at learning what people like. I observe, pick up on clues, and make valid predictions. I know what my boss is going to say. I know the exact second my dad will pretend to laugh at a joke.

But my talent is best used when determining, which man, in a sea of penises, my best friend is going to want to make out with. I sometimes do it without her, just for fun.

Tall, stocky, scruffy, nerdy white guy who knows how to dress himself. I can spot him a mile away, before she opens her mouth to make the comment.

The Bestie, like a lot of us, has a type.

I used to say that I had no type. If I were to sample the men with whom I have kept company in the last couple of years, it would look something like this:

average brown-skinned middle-aged slave-descendent with kind eyes and a paunchy gut
tall, lanky dark-skinned former-model bartender
tall, lanky white Staten Islandish boy with buzzcut
miniscule Nigerian with great fashion sense
tall, tan Puerto-Ricanish looking bodybuilder

I like boys. Men of all colors, styles, races, BMIs, etc. There is always something that catches my eye. I pride myself on being an equal opportunity employer (although Kelly, Inc. does have affirmative action).

I can’t be typecast.

Or at least I thought so until this week. Tuesday was one of the weirdest days of my life.

I went apartment shopping with a coworker who was planning to move to Brooklyn. Over the course of 2 hours, we looked at a variety of places, and she finally found the one that was best suited for her. The broker dropped us off at a non-descript office to process her paperwork.

When we got through the door, I thought I would fall through the floor. There, sitting on the other side of the table, was my ex. Not just any ex, THE ex (so far). The one I thought I would marry. The one I lent money to, the one who I let move in with me, the one I supported for over a year…until he unexpectedly brought a woman into our home whom he introduced as his wife. I always fantasized about running into him.

…with a tractor trailer (while I was wearing a turquoise ball gown).

It was definitely a shakeup. I felt unsettled, and immediately knew that night, of all nights, I didn’t want to be alone.

I called a couple of people to come console me, but was met with cold results. They either didn’t want to make the trip or explained that they were out, with other women.

Late that night, when I was alone in the bathroom, trying not to cry, it hit me.

I DID HAVE A TYPE.

I’m always falling for the dude who is utterly unattainable. The men of my immediate past may not look-alike, but they all have that in common. They are all fixer-upers. They can’t keep decent jobs. Won’t look for decent jobs. Can’t stay sober. Can’t save money. Can’t commit. Can’t move out their parents’ house. Can’t keep it up. Can’t keep it in their pants. You name it.

There’s always a good excuse. Racism. Poverty. Not having a dad. Having an overbearing mother. Having a girl who crushed their heart before. Having a traumatic childhood. Something that pulls at my nurturing instinct and tells me that I can help them find a job, move out their parents, be emotionally available, love (or at least screw) only me.

In the end, it crumbles, and I am the one who needs fixing.

Or maybe I don’t. I’m a stable woman, with a stable job, a retirement account, and a dog. I love hard and am true to my family and friends. It wasn’t always that way. I was alone. And I fixed myself. That’s the only way it works. You have to fix yourself.

On Wednesday, I did something radical. I deleted the numbers of all those lost boys. I wrote eloquent emails telling former/current/potential lovers with no promise that I was done. I did both them and myself a favor. Maybe there are other women who can and want to fix them. I don’t know. I don’t care. I’ve been a woman focused on building lives for men, when I realize that the perfect man for me will want to build something with me. Something that he won’t tear down.

He may not come. But even if he doesn’t, I’ll continue my work on someone worth fixing…

MYSELF.

7Mar2012

Foolproof

Posted in Foolproof, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl by Kel Daroe

This is the first week that began to feel like spring. I’m seeing all the obvious signs: flowers popping out of the ground, skirts being work without cableknit tights, and naturally…groups of twentysomethings anxiously anticipating “dating season.”

My best friend swears I’m a squirrel. Every November, I get disgusted with men. I’m surely not going out into the cold for any man who I mildy suspect is a jackass. I would rather be inside with my flannel, hot toddy, and CSI. Come spring, my outlook changes a bit. It’s impossible to be a bitch in a floral sundress. The weather, the ice coffee, the men without shirts, all convince me that I should give this thing called dating another go round.

That’s why I was tickled pink when I overheard the following conversation of 3 late twentysomethings in a BK coffee shop discussing how to catch a man for spring:

Girl 1: Oh God, it’s spring.

Girl 2: I can’t go through another sexless spring. Why are we always single?

Girl 3: I know! We are so cute! I would date you!

Girl 1: That’s not going to help. This year we need a sure thing. A foolproof strategy to get us laid.

[The girls pause bewilderingly.]

Girl 3: …You mean besides showing skin and putting out?

24Feb2012

Why Can’t Single Women Be “Busy”??

Posted in My Self, Sex and the Single Girl, She Works Hard For The Money, Why Can't Single Women Be Busy? by Kel Daroe

Like magic, it’s happening all around me. All of my friends, friends of friends, acquaintances, and coworkers are all beginning to either get married or reproduce. Every week, I read a blog post, facebook notification, or NYT announcement about someone I know registering at some place where I cannot really afford to buy a gift. Thank God I can crochet. I’m about to give myself carpal tunnel, but at least it’s something!

It’s been a hell of a transition. Whenever I’m listening to a story about prenatal water aerobics, mucus plugs, or wedding china, I cannot help but get a little teary eyed. Not because I want to be with someone or have a kid to call my own (that’s a whole other story). It’s just sad because, in my experience, the stories about babies and husbands and down payments mean the end of stories about hot dates, jello shots, stilettos, and the kama sutra. I still love jello shots, just not like I used to.

The thing that bothers me the most is the look of pity or condescension I get when I spend 7 minutes talking about my life after 29 minutes of listening to the differences between 4 different types of strollers. Oh, Kelly. I’m glad I’m not still dating. He didn’t call you back? You’re looking for a new apartment? I don’t know what I would do if I had all that time on my hands! It’s at that EXACT moment that I yearn to ask “Whatever happen to all those women you were dating last year? Have you ever told your husband about your lesbian phase?” But I hold it together, because I know that life changes are all-consuming and these are people I love, whose life choices I respect.

I just get the nagging little feeling that they don’t respect mine. Being single is not a hobby. It’s not something I do in my spare time like watching 2 Broke Girls. My life is 2 Broke Girls. Bitch, I’m busy! I don’t have time on my hands! I’m constantly working, looking for better job/apartment/boy. There is no safety net for me. I make it or break it on my own. Every day, I experience heartbreak. I’m indigent and uneasy. AND FABULOUS. I shouldn’t have to apologize; I don’t feel bad about it. And you shouldn’t feel bad that you have to go home to fix dinner for your hubby instead of going to a trendy spot with the girls. Just listen and eventually make the time. Having a baby or getting married is a big deal. I want to hear about it.

As long as you don’t judge the fact I’ll be having a margarita while I do!

22Feb2012

When Black Love Goes Wrong

Posted in My Body, My Self, Sex and the Single Girl, When Black Love Goes Wrong by Kel Daroe

If Rihanna was my little sister, at this moment I would be inconsolable.

Within less than one week of losing one pop icon to health problems exacerbated by addiction and domestic abuse, another pop icon publicly reconciled with her boyfriend who continually punched her in the face. It’s been hard to watch and hard to hear. I have had to distance myself in the wake of the GRAMMY performances and Whitney Houston’s death. In barbershops, subways, dining halls, and office buildings, I’m hearing the same refrain from people who look like me, girls and boys alike.

It’s good to finally see Chris Brown on his feet! Why won’t they let Bobby attend Whitney’s funeral?

WTF?

Every time I hear these sentiments, I wonder about my future as a black woman looking for love. I wonder about my family, and a culture that can root for a boy who publicly abuses his lover. I think about the poor example my fave current pop icon is setting by “reconciling” with her former abuser. I am filled immediately with anger, and then with sorrow, followed by empathy.

Yes, a strong sense of empathy. Because I have been there.

The summer following my freshman year at college, my grandfather made me get a job. I was content to lay around his house for 2 months, soaking up the sun, but he demanded that any able-bodied adult in his house work. I reluctantly began a part-time summer career in retail at a wholesale warehouse. I was bored out of my mind. Most of the people working there couldn’t speak or spell or compose proper sentences. I instantly bonded with my supervisor, who was slightly older, super sexy, and going to top-tier university. Our short affair ended badly, after learning that he had placed a bet that he would be the first person in the office to date me. The next day I also learned that he had a fiancee’. Apparently everyone knew but me.

Summer romances are just that, and I didn’t feel that bitter. I tucked the experience in my mental accordion file labeled Boys Suck and went about my business. We kept in touch minimally. It didn’t seem like a totally bad idea to invite him to my 20^th birthday party. I actually didn’t think he would show up.

Actually, he showed up hours in advance when I was all alone. I was surprised, but didn’t care much. I was in an outrageously good mood due to some Smirnoff Ice. He stayed for less than an hour.

The whole hour was a blur. Actually, it wasn’t. I remember every excruciating detail. The flirting. The insults. The confusion. The rape.

What do you do when you’re raped right before your birthday party starts?

You pretend it didn’t happen. People are waiting on you. People are expecting you to smile.

I don’t know how I made it through that weekend. I didn’t have the vocabulary to express what I was feeling or analyze why I pretended to go on with my life because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

I finally broke down and told my favorite aunt and my dad, thinking that I would find some comfort, or better yet, anger.

What I got was the opposite. My aunt told me that most rapes were the girl’s fault for making poor decisions or dressing provocatively. She wanted to continue shopping at the discount warehouse where my rapist was a supervisor. After all, it wasn’t his fault. We would be out and she would stop by the store unannounced on the way home. I ended up repeatedly unloading a cart, looking right into the face of a man who took away my safety and sense of self. I was made to feel dirty, weak, and UnChristian for not immediately forgetting and moving past it. I forced myself to do something so perverse that it began to feel normal. And normal makes people happy. A girl who talks openly, with raw emotion, about the bad things that happened to her is a nag, a bore, a bitch. She is not fun to have at family gatherings. She is not fun to interview because people do not like what she has to say. In one of her shows Oprah talked about having to make breakfast for a family member everyone knew had raped her. I was appalled by the story, and even more disgusted to realize that I had basically done the same thing. I was hoping Rihanna wouldn’t fall into the same trap (she seems so rebellious and strong), but that’s an image. She is a young girl in an abusive relationship who the whole world told her to forgive. So she forgave him.

My only prayer is that she, and all the faceless nameless girls in the same situation, can later learn to forgive themselves.

14Feb2012

What Whitney Houston’s Death Taught Me About Dating

Posted in Being an Artist is Fucking Hard, My Self, Uncategorized by Kel Daroe

Everyone knows where they were when Kennedy and MLK died. Well, everyone who is over 40. For me, the same applies to Whitney Houston.

I was doing the weekend usual…watching tv (naked) with my phone in my hand. I was debating texting a man who had basically told me, through both actions and through words, that he wasn’t what I was looking for. Best Friend called.

“Are you sitting down?” I thought someone had died. Like someone in her family.

Instead, it was someone in both of our families.

I was hit with a fist of dread, shock, and disbelief.

And then I felt an irrational anger.

Why? Because thin 48 year-olds just don’t up and die. Whitney’s demise=drugs=Bobby Brown.

Two seconds later, I looked it up on the internet to verify. Bobby Brown was reportedly inconsolable. I scoffed. Is this the same man who introduced illegal narcotics and domestic violence to my favorite pop icon? I still remember the tears in her eyes when she recounted him spitting in her face in front of their daughter. I had tears in my eyes too.

As a youngster growing up in the church, I always heard about the perils of being “unequally yoked.” They, of course, meant a non-Christian man marrying a Christian woman. For the record, I think that’s bullshit. Today to me it means letting someone go when they don’t have my same values of kindness, thrift, education, and sobriety. You know, the simple stuff. Bobby Brown and Whitney were unequally yoked; I have been the same with countless men.

I sat stunned.

And then something magical happened.

I instantly deleted the text message that I was sending. If I’m going to screw up my life and endure heartache, I want to do it on my own accord. I wanted to do it without the help of a man.

10Jan2012

My Mother, My Self

Posted in Being an Artist is Fucking Hard, My Motherboard, My Self, She Works Hard For The Money by Kel Daroe

My mother and I have the same conversation repeatedly. I listen to the small accomplishments in her day, she does the same for me. Then the awkward pause sets in. If I’m in a good mood to listen to her soliloquy, I will play Angry Birds on mute or make a fragrant pasta dish while she is on speaker. Multitasking keeps me from actually realizing I’m having the same conversation over and over and over again.

It also distracts me from the fact that it hurts every time.

Growing up, I would consider myself the star child. I am the most responsible and principle-driven. I beat my brother in all those tests. Getting into the Ivy wasn’t a problem, neither was garnering male interest. Like a prize-winning thoroughbred, my parents bet on me (quite literally) to bring in the millions, either by making them myself or falling in love with a person who did.

Approaching 30, it’s becoming pretty clear that neither one of those things will not happen. I live in New York City, away from my Southern contingent, semi-happily single, and miserably broke. She doesn’t understand it. And so, in her best effort to help, she offers me a shitload of unsolicited and ill-timed advice.

Here’s a sprinkling of some of my favorites:

Being a career woman today is the same as it was circa 1979.
If a woman doesn’t have a child, her life is wasted.
I should follow my creative interests if I am to ever be happy, even if I live in the working class.
Being in the working class is a sin.
New York City is responsible for every ailment and affliction I have had in the last 7 years including yeast infections, depression, weight gain, and asthma.
My career history, at the age of 28, resembles that of someone who has been in and out of rehab.
Most of my problems would simply be solved if I lost weight.
No man on the earth is good enough me, but I should be married immediately.

Needless to say, these conversations end with me arguing, annoyed, in tears, or hanging up. I don’t know what it is about the mother/daughter relationship that is always so filled with strife. In my personal situation, it is hard for me to listen wholeheartedly to a woman who hasn’t worked in 20 plus years, the last 12 of which she has been divorced. I want desperately to relate to someone I’m related to, but it’s virtually impossible. I am a spinster. Ha! No, I’m serious. The last 3 generations of women have reproduced by now. Most were married. None lived in a city or apartment by themselves.

In equal measure, I am spinster, pioneer, and endangered species. It equals neurosis, emotional eating…

…and occasional moments of clarity, brilliance, and wit.

Kelly's Belly

Progress is precarious.

Category Archives: My Self